


graveyard smash

by buckgaybarnes



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: (Sexy) Jealous Hermann, Flirting, Getting Together, Halloween, Lingerie (of the Sexy Costume variety), M/M, Obligatory Shatterdome Halloween Party, Riding, Sexy Candy Eating, Sexy Costumes, Shatterdome Era Hijinks, i'm very predictable by this point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-28 00:23:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16230347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckgaybarnes/pseuds/buckgaybarnes
Summary: Newt is clumsy and obnoxious in most of what he does, but hell if he can’t flirt when the need arises. If he learned one thing from his time in Boston as a hyperactive and horny young twentysomething (besides enough knowledge for a handful of PhDs), it’s that.





	graveyard smash

**Author's Note:**

> dressing newt up in slutty halloween costumes is an act of feminism, actually,
> 
> (fic technically written for the ever wonderful ferio, who wanted something like this back in april, and i FINALLY finished it lol. sorry i havent written as much lately! ive been busy)

“So,” Newt says. “Halloween.”

“No,” Hermann says automatically.

Newt sticks out his lower lip. “You didn’t even let me ask the question, man,” he says.

Hermann continues copying down some complex equation to his chalkboard, not even bothering to look at Newt, even when Newt went to all the trouble of scooting his chair to Hermann’s side of the lab. “You want me to dress up with you, do you not?”

“I’ll help you make a costume!”

“No,” Hermann says again.

“I’m, like, really good at it!” Newt insists, because, damn it, he is. All his undergrad days of cosplay paid off; he’s weirdly skilled with a needle and thread now, and seeing as comic cons kinda fell out of vogue when literal sci-fi monsters started rising from the deep, he has nothing to channel that energy into, outside of reattaching the occasional loose button and, more importantly, _Halloween_. He goes all-out every year, even if it’s for nothing more than sitting in his own bed with shitty 80s slasher flicks pulled up on his laptop and the largest bag of candy he could legally get shipped to the Shatterdome. He’s already mentally planning Hermann’s costume in conjunction with his. They could be a duo, Kirk and Spock or—holy shit—Ernie and Bert style—

“Newton,” Hermann sighs, hand stilling. He rests his head against the chalkboard with a light  _thunk_ , which years of attuning himself to Hermann’s body language informs Newt that Hermann’s about three seconds away from continuing to hit his head against the chalkboard, but more rhythmically. “It is  _June._ I don’t understand why you’re insisting on discussing this now.”

“Tendo submitted the budget request forms for a Halloween party this afternoon and I got excited,” Newt says, and adds dismissively, “You know how long in advance we have to get shit approved.” It’s the truth; Pentecost isn’t stingy by any means, especially when it comes to boosting base morale, but they don’t exactly have massive reserves of cash lying around ready to be spent on a whim. A vague Winter-Non-Denominational-Holiday-New-Year’s-Combo party is a given every year but they’ve only successfully thrown one for Halloween in all Newt’s years at the Shatterdome.

Hermann sighs again. “As me again in October,” he says, and lifts his head from the chalkboard, resumes his scrawl. “I may change my mind.”

“ _Sweet_ ,” Newt says, and rolls his swivel chair back over to his side of the lab.

October first, Newt shows up to work in socks with tiny ghosts and headstones printed on them and a jack-o-lantern earring in one ear. When Hermann notices the earring, he nearly sloshes his cup of coffee down his front. It misses his sweater, but not the surface of his desk, and a stack of blank HR complaint forms he keeps for easy access to threatening Newt fall casualty.

“I wasn't aware you had pierced ears,” Hermann says after a beat, and he starts cleaning up the spill with a handkerchief he pulls from his pocket.

“Pierced  _ear_ ,” Newt corrects, snapping on a pair of gloves. “Did it myself, safety pin style, baby. I used to be a  _bit_ of a badass.” He winks, and pointedly does not reveal the reason he only has the one ear pierced is less for the coolness factor and more because it hurt so much he couldn’t bring himself to do the other.

“Mm,” Hermann says, already losing interest. He folds the stained handkerchief and shoves it back in his pocket, slides his glasses up onto his nose. He’s reading some sort of massive document that looks horrendously boring, but it’s Hermann, so he manages to become engrossed in it in seconds flat.

Newt fidgets impatiently. “Hermann,” he says.

Hermann doesn’t answer.

“ _Hermann_ ,” Newt repeats.

Hermann sets down the document and massages the bridge of his nose. “What is it, Newton?”

“It’s October,” Newt says. He points a gloved hand to his little jack-o-lantern earring.

“That it is.”

“And Tendo’s Halloween party got approved.” Hermann looks at him blankly. Apparently he really is going to make Newt spell it out for him. Or maybe he just doesn’t obsessively file away conversations for months like Newt does. “Dude, come  _on_ ,” he groans, “dress up with me!”

“Oh.” Hermann sighs a little. “This again?”

“ _Yes_ , this again.”

“Even in the unlikely event that I would attend the Halloween party,” Hermann says, “what makes you think I’d want to match with you?”

Is it a crime for Newt to want to bond with his labmate, not-always-so-friendly rivalry aside? Anyway, it’s not like Hermann doesn’t occasionally get in the spirit for things: Newt’s seen the man’s collection of hideous light-up Hanukkah sweaters, and they’re enough to rival his own in terms of tacky excellence. But Hermann’s already moved back to his report. The conversation’s over, apparently. “Fine,” Newt declares, and thrusts his hands into the kaiju organ on his workbench with a particular venom, resulting in a squelch that makes Hermann cringe. “But you’re gonna regret it. I’m gonna look so hot.” And he will, once he finds the right fabric, and everyone will be  _all_ over him so much Hermann—if he bothers to show up—won’t be able to get a word in all night, sorry, Hermann, maybe Newt would have time to talk to you if you matched with him like Newt wanted you to.

“I’m sure I will,” Hermann says, mildly.

 

Halloween falls on a Thursday that year, so the party gets scheduled for the Saturday before. Newt finishes his costume early and spends the week leading up to it in a buzz of excitement. “I bet you can’t guess what I’m dressing up as,” he tells Hermann over dinner on the 23rd.

“It’s  _really_ good,” he tells him during work on the 24th, and Hermann throws his chalk at him.

“It’s not too late!” he says by way of greeting when Hermann walks into the lab on the morning of the 25th. “I can make you one tonight.” Hermann turns and walks back out.

 

The point is that Newt gave Hermann plenty of warning, offered plenty of times to help  _and_ tell him what his costume is, and Hermann made it  _very_ clear that he wanted no part in any of it. Hermann wasn’t even supposed to come to the party. So he really just—

“What on  _earth_ ,” Hermann is saying, eyes absurdly wide, “are you wearing, Newton?” He’s clutching his appropriately festive orange solo cup so hard it’s starting to crinkle, and a little bit of whatever’s inside—bright orange punch, it looks like—spills over the rim. Newt pushes up his little mask and grins.

“Hermann!” he says, feigning innocence. Like he’s not standing in front of his lab partner in what’s basically underwear. “I didn’t know you’d be coming!” Hermann’s eyes are glued to Newt’s little tulle skirt, and the stockings and garters below that. The cup crinkles a little more in his hand. “Eyes up here,” Newt says, and Hermann almost jumps. He blinks at the mess of punch pooling below on the floor and staining his fingers.

“I wasn’t—” he says, and Newt winks.

“Sure,” Newt says. Hermann had been lurking by the door when Newt wandered in, a bit away from a group of j-techs, and looking very miserable. He seems to be alone. “Why are you here? You hate parties.”

Hermann sips his punch through a scowl. “Tendo,” he says. “He  _forced_ me here under false pretenses.”

That would explain the lack of costume. Newt scans the crowd for Tendo and spots him halfway across the room, chatting it up with some of his Loccent co-workers. Left Hermann to fend to his own devices, then. “I’ll keep you company,” Newt says, and Hermann’s scowl deepens.

“I’m not a child,” Hermann says. “I don’t need to be watched.”

Newt shrugs. “Okay, then. Bye.” He pushes his mask back down and pushes his way into the crowd, leaving Hermann looking distinctively forlorn behind him.

He gets some stares, which is what he’d been expecting, but more importantly  _appreciative_  stares, which is what he’d been hoping for. A few whistles. A jaeger pilot Newt’s never spoken to—and only recognizes because he passed by him working out in the gym one time and thought  _wow_ —and dressed as some random superhero checks him out as he passes. Newt checks him out back, and  _maybe_ brushes by him a little closer than necessary. Newt loves attention, so sue him.

The jaeger pilot’s followed him to the punch bowl, which Newt learns when he comes face to face with him when he turns around after he fills his cup. Well. As face to face as he can manage. He’s a good foot taller than Newt and buff as  _hell_. Twice Newt’s size, if he had to guess. “Hey, Dr. Geiszler,” the pilot says, a little dumbstruck, eyes fixed on Newt’s very colorful, and very bare, chest; the upper body of Newt’s costume is more or less just sleeves and gloves. “Are you here with anyone?”

Newt sets his cup down and smiles as coyly as he can manage. “No,” he begins, and then someone near-barrels into him so hard he almost falls onto the snack table and sends pretzels and candy flying. “Shit—!”

It’s Hermann, looking extremely flustered and twisting his fingers around the head of his cane, and he grabs Newt’s arm with his free hand. “Newton!” he says. “I have an important question for you. Ah—an immediate, important—” He continues spouting nonsense about how  _important_ that question is as he hauls Newt off back to the little corner Newt found him in. He doesn’t even let Newt grab his punch, let alone make excuses to the jaeger pilot.

“What the hell, Hermann?” Newt says when Hermann finally unhands him.

“That man,” Hermann declares, red in the face, “was propositioning you, Newton.”

“Yeah, I  _know_ ,” Newt says. “That was the point. Why do you think I’m dressed like this?” He’s well aware of his status as the Shatterdome’s resident  _small angry gremlin who roots around in trash_ , thank you, which makes it important that he reverses all those expectations whenever possible just to remind people that he  _can_ be hot when he wants to be (and hopefully get laid in the process).

“Oh,” Hermann says. Newt folds his arms.

“Can I go now?” he says. “If I have your approval, I mean.”

“I wasn’t—” Hermann begins, and then shuts his mouth. His eyes travel back down to Newt’s flouncy skirt, and Newt smooths it, a little self-conscious, before stomping back off to the snack table.

The jaeger pilot’s still there, and he’s been joined by a friend; they both brighten up with they see Newt. “Here’s your drink,” the first guy says, handing Newt’s cup to him. Newt makes sure to brush his fingers against his when he takes it back.

“Thanks,” Newt says, and smiles as coyly as before. He takes a sip, and makes sure to swallow a bit more elaborately than necessary, just to watch two sets of eyes immediately go to his throat. “What were we talking about?”

 

Newt is clumsy and obnoxious in most of what he does, but hell if he can’t  _flirt_ when the need arises. If he learned one thing from his time in Boston as a hyperactive and horny young twentysomething (besides enough knowledge for a handful of PhDs), it’s that. He knows how to fan his fingers out against chests and giggle appropriately at jokes. He knows how to schmooze and flatter. He knows how to bend over at opportune moments, how to flash enough skin to tease, how to flutter his eyelashes and bite his lip. He knows how to dress for it, too. In Boston it was tight band shirts and even tighter skinny jeans and enough gel to keep his hair in place when he inevitably made out with someone in a seedy alleyway, and here at the Shatterdome it’s making the most of Halloween parties by going as a slutty Godzilla. Just cutting straight to the end goal. Much easier in the long run.

He’s got a nice little crowd around him—the pilot, the pilot’s friend, and a few techs—and every single one of them is hanging onto Newt’s every word. It’s cool. They get him drinks and candy and  _whatever_ when he asks, they laugh at his jokes, they blatantly check out his legs, so as a thank you, Newt ups the  _clueless and sexy_ angle: he slides his hands  _very_ sensually down his thighs to adjust his garters every now and then, and—around half an hour ago—he dropped one of his gloves with a little  _oops_! and had the distinct pleasure of watching three separate men scramble to pick it up for him, and  _maybe_ Newt lifted his skirt up a bit while they were below him so they got better views of his pink lace underwear.

Now, he’s lost his mask and dug a lollipop out from the candy bowl to enjoy a bit more lasciviously than a generic cherry lollipop deserves—alternating between hallowing his cheeks around it as he sucks and flicking his tongue out across it, letting slip a few moans every now and then. It’s actually a pretty terrible lollipop, but it’s worth it for the unabashedly aroused looks he’s getting.

He presses a little kiss to the tip of it before he flutters his eyelashes at the nearest man he’s managed to  _enthrall_. One of the techs. “Think one of you could get me another drink?” Newt says.

Immediately every single one of them scrambles to the drinks table, where Tendo’s stacked up bottles of everything from some heinous blue raspberry vodka to genuinely good whiskey, and Newt leans back against the wall and basks in the attention. There’s a familiar clacking to his left, and then Hermann is suddenly thrusting a drink into his hand and looking everywhere but Newt’s face.

“Uh,” Newt says, taking it. “Thank you?” Hermann  _hmphs_. Newt sips the drink—it’s exactly what he likes, and how he likes it. Has Hermann been lurking in the corner with it this whole time? That’s...a little weird, but kind of endearing, to be honest, in a way that only Hermann can be endearing. Newt watches Hermann from the corner of his eye; he’s a bit fidgety, a bit anxious, and he’s undone the top two buttons of his shirt. Newt doesn’t blame him. It’s stuffy as hell in here.

Hermann clears his throat. “How is your—” Hermann waves his hand about, “ _—quest_ going?”

“Pretty good,” Newt says, and he nods at the table across the room, where the five men of Newt’s affections are currently fighting each other to see who can mix a drink for Newt the fastest. And then, because he and Hermann are sort of friends, you know, he can tell Hermann stuff like this, “I haven’t decided which one I’m gonna bang yet. It’s kinda fun to just watch them duke it out.”

“The tall one mocked you to his companion a month ago in the mess hall,” Hermann suddenly blurts out.

Newt blinks. “What?”

“The—ah—the tall one,” Hermann says, and points. It’s the first jaeger pilot Newt spoke to. “He said some rather unkind things about you.”

“Most people do,” Newt says, unsure of where Hermann’s going with this, because yes, Newt is aware that a lot of people think he’s a fucking weirdo, but he’s just looking for a quick lay, you know, he doesn’t want to marry anyone. “You do. Weekly _._ Daily _._ ”

Hermann looks extremely uncomfortable. “Well. We’re different, aren’t we?” Newt’s at a loss for what to say, frankly, in the face of both Hermann's sudden bizarre streak of chivalry and the wildly loaded  _we’re different, aren’t we?,_ and then Hermann makes it even  _weirder_ by looking very pointedly down at where Newt’s skirt is riding up to the reveal the tip of his garter belt and adding, with a nervous little lip bite, “You look very...appealing tonight, Newton.”

Newt thinks he should be surprised, maybe, that Hermann is almost definitely awkward-stilted-hitting on him, still in that bizarrely endearing Hermann way, but it’s a party, so Newt just locks eyes with Hermann and drags his tongue very, very slowly over the tip of the cherry lollipop he’s still holding. “Do I?” he says, innocently. He presses another little kiss to it, messier this time, and when he pulls away he licks the stickiness from his lips.

Hermann’s jaw is working furiously in that odd little way it always does when he’s angry or nervous or lost in thought. He’s staring at the lollipop with dark eyes. “Newton,” he says, and swallows heavily. “Ah—”

Newt sets his cup down on the floor and snags Hermann’s left hand and, with a boldness he maybe doesn’t entirely feel, presses it to his upper thigh, where stocking meets skin and garter. Hermann groans, shaky and nearly inaudible. “Were you jealous?” Newt says, voice low. He guides Hermann’s hand higher, up his skirt, til his fingers are brushing the edges of the little lace underwear Newt’s wearing. Hermann groans again.

“Newton,” he breathes.

“Let’s get out of here,” Newt says.

They make a quick getaway, much to the disappointment of Newt’s little fanclub, who come back with ten different drinks just in time to watch Hermann hustle the two of them out the door while Newt waves goodbye. Newt thinks it probably doesn’t help that Hermann’s groping his ass under his skirt the entire time. It’s kinda hot, actually, Hermann getting all possessive; he pushes Newt onto his bed the second they make it through the door of Hermann’s quarters, and then Hermann just stands above him, cane clasped in both hands, eyes roaming over every inch of exposed skin of Newt’s body.

Newt’s already taken off his little mask, and he’s lost his right glove some time earlier in the night—probably when he pulled that little stunt just to treat everyone to an up-the-skirt ogling—so he just tears off his left glove and then kicks off his shoes. He keeps the sheer sleeves on, as well as the tulle skirt and stockings and garter belt and panties below that, but he does spread his legs so that Hermann has a full, plain view of under his skirt. “Hermann,” he says, and waggles his eyebrows, after five minutes of Hermann doing nothing but hunch a bit over the bed with a very obvious boner, “aren’t you gonna touch me?”

Newt scoots up onto his knees and hooks his fingers around Hermann’s belt loops. He tugs him forward, and Hermann stumbles a bit. He’s all cute like this, flustered and nervous, and Newt can’t help but lean in and press a kiss to the tented front of Hermann’s trousers. Hermann groans in that same hot little way he had at the party. “Touch me, Hermann,” Newt says, stroking his hands across Hermann’s hips, “come on—”

Hermann grabs his wrists, suddenly, and pushes him back against the pillows. It’s bordering on  _rough_. Newt’s cock perks to life instantly. “Oh,” he says, mouth hanging open a bit. Hermann sits heavily on the bed, facing Newt, and sets his cane against the nightstand, and Newt watches him work his sweater vest over his head and finish unbuttoning his neat shirt. He’s wearing an equally neat undershirt beneath, because it’s Hermann, so it’s hardly seeing him shirtless, but it gives Newt a  _stellar_ view of his almost-toned biceps and the light freckles that dust his shoulders. When he strips himself down to his briefs—plain grey, thankfully  _not_ the tighty-whities Newt had been expecting—he finally turns his attention back to Newt.

Newt, to his credit, keeps from jumping him. “Hermann,” he says, “you’re  _hot_.”

“Thank you,” Hermann says. He leans in and places a hand on Newt’s left thigh, again, massaging the very top of the stocking. “I was jealous, if you must know.”

“Mm?” Newt says, settling back into the pillows. Hermann begins massaging his other thigh, as well, thumbs just nearly brushing his inner thighs and where Newt's cock pokes out from his panties. It’s the perfect kind of tease.

“I was  _very_ jealous,” Hermann continues, lowering his voice to something deeper, sexier, and Newt shuts his eyes and bites his lip. “I saw you throwing yourself at half a dozen other men and not a single one deserved you.”

Newt cracks an eyelid. “And you do?” he says, lip curling up into a smile, but it’s lost in a little whimper when Hermann deliberately grazes his fingers over Newt’s cock through the lace. “ _Wow_ , Hermann.”

“Well,” Hermann begins, tone teasing, “you do make a  _very_ pretty picture tonight, but I do like more about you than—” he plucks at one garter, and the tiny sting of it when it hits Newt’s skin makes him squirm, “—this.”

Newt knows that he’s on the verge of having awesome Halloween sex with Hermann, but that doesn’t mean he also can’t feel a happy, warm little rush in his chest when Hermann says he  _likes_ stuff about Newt beyond the physical. He also feels a little embarrassed. “I wasn’t  _throwing myself_ at them,” Newt protests weakly, but Hermann’s jerking his thighs apart and rubbing at Newt’s cock once more and Newt is finding it very hard to form sentences. “I—uh—”

“I saw the little number with the glove, Newton.”

“I might’ve been throwing myself at them,” Newt concedes. “But, hey, I threw myself at you too, didn’t I? Points for consistency.” Hermann squeezes his cock, and Newt bucks his hips up into the air. “ _Fuck_ —!”

“Ideally,” Hermann says, deadpan, and Newt can’t help himself from dissolving into giggles. Maybe he  _was_ being a little over the top tonight. But it kind of worked, right? Hermann grins, too, corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that’s horrendously cute, and Newt grabs his arms and drags him down for a little peck. Kissing Hermann is fantastic. One of Newt's new favorite hobbies, he's decided.

“Come on,” Newt says against Hermann's lips, “I know you want to tear all this shit off me and have your terrible way with me.”

Hermann kisses him again, longer and deeper. Newt’s a little breathless when he finally parts with one tiny little kiss to Newt’s lower lip. “Mm, on the contrary,” he says, and his hand has gone back to squeezing Newt’s ass, “I would very much prefer you to keep it on.”

“Okay,” Newt squeaks.

 

Newt is very insistent they do this in the way that’s most comfortable for Hermann and won’t put strain on his leg, so Hermann ends up sitting against the headboard while Newt  _very_ enthusiastically slides down onto his cock, legs splayed wide with the stockings, garters, and skirt still in place; the panties lie in a little heap next to Hermann’s briefs and undershirt on the floor. “Hermann,” Newt sighs happily when he bottoms out, grinding down, and Hermann squeezes eagerly at his ass, “oh, wow—” Hermann grazes his teeth across Newt’s throat, and Newt moans loudly, unable to help himself, and clutches at Hermann’s back. “Oh,” he pants, heat rising to his cheeks, “shit, you gotta—everyone’s gonna hear me—”

“Yes,” Hermann agrees against his skin, and he fucks up into Newt at the same time he drags his teeth across his jaw. Little stars burst behind Newt’s eyelids, and he claws at Hermann with a shrill whine.

“ _Hermann_ —”

“Let them hear,” Hermann says in his ear, fucking up into Newt at a steady, maddening pace that makes Newt shake and writhe and cling desperately to Hermann. Newt moans again, and Hermann mouths behind his ear. “Yes,” Hermann breathes, “yes, yes—”

Hermann getting possessive is  _hot_ , it turns out, and Newt doesn’t bother swallowing down any of his noises. He moans and shouts, begs for more,  _faster_ , and he finds Hermann grinds up just a bit harder when Newt calls out Hermann’s name, squeezes his ass tighter when Newt shouts out praise. Hermann sucks deep, bruising hickeys across his neck and shoulders as he fucks him, hickeys Newt knows he won’t be able to hide and that won’t fade for at least a week, marking Newt up as his own. The thought is overwhelmingly sexy—being claimed by Hermann—and when Hermann wriggles his hand between their bodies and takes Newt’s cock in his hand, Newt’s shouting and spilling all over his skirt and Hermann’s chest with a few strokes.

“Oh,  _Newton_ ,” Hermann moans, wrapping his arms around Newt and continuing to roll his hips up frantically, all rhythm lost as Newt clenches down around him. He leaves messy, open-mouthed kisses across Newt’s shoulder, pets his hair in a way that’s oddly tender, and when he comes he does nothing but gasp Newt’s name over and over.

 

“You really did a number on my neck,” Newt says, as he and Hermann trade lazy little kisses afterwards. Newt brushes his hand over one of the bruising bite marks and winces. “I mean, I’m not complaining, but absolutely everyone at that party is going to know what shenanigans we got up to.”

“I'm glad of it,” Hermann says, and kisses one of the marks he left. “That was, in fact, my intention.” Newt didn’t expect Hermann to be a cuddler. He didn’t expect Hermann to want to screw him, either, or even really tolerate him, but here they are. Newt yawns, and turns over in Hermann’s arms to brush their noses together.

“I’m staying here tonight,” Newt declares, and snuggles close. “You’re cozy,” he says, because Hermann’s skinny chest and bony elbows  _are_ , somehow, incredibly cozy to be held against, and it also doesn’t hurt that Hermann’s bedspread and mattress are about fifty times the quality of the ones in the rest of the Shatterdome bunks. Hermann also tugged one of his own sweaters onto Newt, in lieu of pajamas, when they cleaned themselves up, and that’s also very warm and nice. “Also, there’s jizz all over my clothing, so—”

“Naturally,” Hermann agrees, petting Newt's hair again. “Goodnight, Newton.”

**Author's Note:**

> u know where to find me
> 
> i WILL post non-smutty hijinks eventually


End file.
